Waynesburl

Waynesboro? My family, my mother, myself…are from where? This foreign place, this strange place was not my family's origin. It just couldn’t have been. I’d never heard of a ​Waynesboro, Mississippi in my entire life, but Waynesburl? Waynesburl is all of my earliest, fondest memories. Waynesburl is my family's culture.

My mother always asked, “Do you want to spend the night in Waynesburl with MawMaw and PawPaw?” not “Would you care to frolic with your grandparents on their Waynesboro estate?” Waynesburl​ is where my mother grew up, where I’d spend long, happy summer days playing with my cousins who were more like siblings. Waynesburl​ was where I made mud pies, shucked corn, and indulged in other country-folk activities. Waynesboro doesn’t exist in my memory just as Waynesburl doesn’t sit on any dusty, old map. Waynesboro dallies on the tongues of uppity scholars who study cultures. Waynesburl rolls off the tongues of fiery ancestors who create cultures. Waynesboro is #NotMyHometown. Only, it ​is my hometown. I spent the majority of my childhood under the wrong impression, and I was twelve when I realized this. I am eighteen now, and I know that there was nothing wrong with that impression at all.

Southern dialect and African American vernacular—I was raised with both—have been scrutinized for being inarticulate. As a result, I would all but give myself speech therapy to erase any hint of my Southern accent. “Ah can’t walk aroun’ talkin like dis to ma professuhs,” I’d say to myself. “Ah refuse to be one of ​those people.” I thought I didn’t want to be one of those people who spoke unintelligently, but my drawl, ma Southern twang, is a gift. A gift I must use if I am going to communicate with my family, whom I love. My great-grandmother, Nanny, says, “High suga, som’wrong with my eye, and can’t walk too good.” Once, she was telling me about her experience at the “hors-spitta,” and it took my mother acting as interpreter to clarify that Nanny was referring to the hospital. That instance wasn’t particularly concerning at first; but, later, I couldn’t help but think how this language barrier between us could be detrimental if I never tried to understand and retain my country dialect. ​What if Nanny really needed help but I couldn’t understand?

On the more sentimental side of things, my dialect is a link to my family’s roots. My MawMaw ain’t Jesus, but I promise this woman could make food out of air molecules. Einstein coined relativity, but MawMaw plucked clouds from the sky, mixed them in a bowl, and condensed them down into what we mortals call biscuits. She took flour and water and gave us liquid euphoria; we simpletons call it “gravy.” While people gorge on good food, MawMaw’s cooking is experienced like love from the warmest heart. Many a time, I experienced this manifestation of love as MawMaw imparted knowledge in only the way she could with her drawl, ever so prominent. It was over a plate of food that I learned that “a lie don’t ca’e who tell et.” It was with a mouth full of homemade cornbread that I heard that “we live and learn and die and fah-get it awl.”

I learned practical things as well, like how drivers shouldn't “fly down nat ro-ahd,” because it’s in the country backwoods of Waynesburl that careless drivers get hurt the most. How could I consider this accent unintelligent—let alone deserving of erasure—when it was with this accent that I received so much affection and wisdom? My grandmother uses this dialect to communicate her love. For no other reason but to reciprocate that warmth to my family, I ain’t ever gon’ change ma country tongue.

To articulate means to express oneself clearly and effectively. Grammar is a tool of articulation, but in some instances, it becomes a barrier. I wouldn’t speak Spanish to an English-speaking, monolingual waiter. I wouldn’t be understood and wouldn’t get served. Speaking in another vernacular is similar. There is culture and a different set of understanding that comes with speaking in different dialects; dialects act very much like other languages. So, when I ask my PawPaw, “Whe’a da potato salad at?” it’s only important that he understands what I mean, regardless of grammar rules.

I realized that as long as I’m doing my job as a communicator, then “ain’t” is just as valid as “is not,” “y’all” is no less useful than “you all,” and someone who might fail a standardized grammar test could be just as articulate as someone proficient in Standard English.

That being said, the same way Waynesburlian language is necessary to communicate with my family, Standard English, of course, has its purpose. There are some instances when I simply won’t be understood or get my message across if I don’t use Standard English. My Canadian professor can’t “re-learn me Chap’da se’um,” but he is most helpful reiterating the points of “chapter seven.” Waynesburl is very much a part of me, but very much not a part of any GPS database. If I called MawMaw and asked for directions to “Waynesburl,” she’d send them as soon as she could. Neither Google, Siri, nor Cortana would even know where to begin to find directions to Waynesburl. They were coded to recognize Standard English input, and because they cannot understand my vernacular, I have to adapt. This adaptation, however, does not devalue my native tongue. Artificial intelligence is the epitome of communication compromised for correctness. You know how it goes.

“Siri, call MawMaw.”

“Ok. Calling Joseph’s Mom.”